Now mirrors havemoved up in the world.We peer in, eye to eye,shoulders back, a photo booth’s rectangular frame.We preen our feathersand imagine howthe world must meet us.This reflection is hardas ice, as diamond;no curious fingertip can turn the surface to soup or circlesor drop in a shell to listen for its depth.The image returnsimpassively and wecannot wet our hands in itor take a piece in palmto scrutiniseand scatter.